Watchful Wisteria (Wisteria Witches Mysteries Book 4)

by Angela Pepper

  Shaking her head, she walked past me out of the garden.

  I chased after her. “Actually, calling these snails left-handed is a bit of a misnomer. A human being with the equivalent of the same genetic mutation would have their organs completely reversed, with the heart on the right-hand side.”

  She picked up her pace.

  I called out, “Fun fact: the human heart actually sits in the center of your chest, in between your lungs. It’s only tilted slightly to the left. Your pancreas, however, is on the left.”

  The ghost dogs bounded after her as she approached a small wooden shed with an adjoining pen enclosed in chicken wire.

  I caught up with her and asked, “Does Tansy raise chickens?”

  Zinnia opened the door to the wooden shed. “Not anymore,” she said.

  The shed held only empty nest boxes and a few loose feathers. Out in the open-air pen, there was a scattering of chicken feed on the ground that hadn’t been taken away by smaller birds or wild rodents.

  “The chickens disappeared recently,” I noted. “But I don’t see any chicken ghosts roaming around, if that’s of any comfort.” And then, with optimism, “Maybe they busted out and flew away?”

  “Perhaps.” Zinnia closed the door to the chicken shed even though doing so was pointless, now that the chickens were gone. We moved on to the next building.

  It was another greenhouse, not unlike the first few we’d toured, and this one was also empty of plants, except for the ground, which was covered in a smooth carpet of green leaves.

  Zinnia knelt and examined the leaves. “This is a ground-cover plant I don’t recognize.”

  “Let’s call it shag,” I said, because it was soft underfoot, like shag carpet.

  Zinnia dug through the shaggy leaves and picked up something gray and stick-like. “What does this look like to you?”

  I walked over to get a closer look. “That’s a chicken bone,” I said. “Specifically, the drumstick.”

  “Tansy’s chickens didn’t fly away.” Zinnia frowned at the drumstick. “She had a dozen hens.”

  “I guess we’re up to a death toll of fourteen. Two dogs and a coop full of chickens.”

  “And Tansy makes fifteen,” she said softly.

  “Don’t say that yet. We don’t know for sure.”

  “What was the description Rhys gave you? For the creature that attacked him on Wednesday? We’re not far from Pacific Spirit Park.”

  “He said it was a flying creature. A giant winged beast, black, with razor-sharp talons. He also said it was snarling. Not cawing or hissing but snarling.”

  “That could be any number of things.”

  “Or it could have been purely imaginary,” I said. “He probably had an accomplice give him a non-fatal wound.”

  “That’s a possibility,” she said softly.

  I kicked at the green leaves. I didn’t like the way the ground-cover plant was undulating around my sandals, tickling my toes.

  Still holding the chicken drumstick, Zinnia stood up. “Where are the dogs now?”

  I’d gotten used to the silent black pooches and hadn’t been tracking them closely, so I had to look around.

  “They’re back at the entrance to this greenhouse,” I said. “They’re sitting obediently on the outside. They must have been trained to stay out of this building.”

  As I turned my head back toward my aunt, a glinting flash overhead caught my eye. A metallic object hung from the apex of the greenhouse, glittering like a disco ball in the sunshine. Except it wasn’t a disco ball. It was a hand-held gardening tool. A small, pointed shovel. A trowel. Why had Tansy hung a trowel all the way up there? It must have been a personal joke or some gardening superstition.

  “Coco, Jasper, come here,” Zinnia called.

  I turned to watch the shadow ghost dogs. “Their ears perked up at their names,” I reported. “But they’re not coming in.”

  “They must be afraid of whatever got to the chickens.” She put the bone into her purse. “The creature must have been an omnivore, because it also consumed whatever plants Tansy was growing in here.” She looked up and squinted at the brightness coming through the clear, corrugated plastic roof. “This is Tansy’s best greenhouse, for her most valuable crops.”

  “Something ate tasty chickens on a bed of greens,” I said. “Sounds like a Chicken Caesar. Now we just need to find the crouton crumbs and the empty vat of Caesar salad dressing, and the mystery will be solved.”

  Zinnia nearly smiled. “Chicken Caesar? That sounds exactly like something Tansy would say. The longer she lived on her own out here, the stranger her sense of humor became. Is she here now? Inside you?”

  “Oh, please. That was a good joke, and I came up with it all on my own.”

  “If you say so.” She led the way out of the greenhouse and toward the one building we hadn’t searched yet—Tansy’s house. We’d knocked on the door earlier but hadn’t gone inside yet. We’d been hoping to find Tansy in her garden. Alive.

  My aunt tried the door. “Unlocked,” she said. “Do you hear anything?”

  We stood on the front step, listening. You’d think the countryside would be quiet, but it’s not. I heard the bumbling buzz of honeybees, distant croaking frogs, gurgling water from the snail fountain, water rushing in a nearby creek, as well as the songs of several birds. The air was fragrant with roses, both wild and cultivated.

  My aunt pushed the door to the house open with a creak.

  “Tansy, it’s Zinnia Riddle,” she called out. “I’m coming inside with my niece, Zara. I’ve told you about her.”

  “All good things, I hope.”

  She didn’t comment.

  The dark shadow dogs, Jasper and Coco, came running at top speed as though someone had called them for dinner. They had no physical form to knock me down, which was a good thing, or I’d have been sent sprawling for the second time that day.

  My aunt stepped into the house, and I followed, keeping my senses on high alert for a monster that had recently eaten a dozen chickens plus two dogs, a monster who might be feeling peckish for a pair of redheaded witches.

  Chapter 21

  Tansy’s house was decrepit by today’s standards, but sixty years ago, it might have been featured in glossy architectural magazines. The furnishings were well worn but loved. A classic leather-and-wood Eames lounger sat in front of a picture window. Judging by the condition of the tattered leather, I thought the reclining chair had been Tansy’s favorite place to sit.

  Zinnia led the way, calling out for Tansy as we methodically checked every room. My aunt didn’t say it, but we both knew we were looking for a body.

  Our search took a solid twenty minutes and concluded in the kitchen. We’d checked every room and closet. We’d even looked inside the woman’s laundry hamper. There’d been no blood or sign of foul play. The only thing suspicious was Tansy’s absence and the two ghost dogs.

  I wandered over to the dining room table. Some opened letters caught my eye, and I felt a shudder of dread. Bills, I thought. I should have averted my eyes immediately, the way I did at my own house.

  Zinnia also saw the mail and went right to the stack. “Tansy would want me to understand what’s happening here,” she said, and she began reading.

  I joined her at the table and took a seat. My feet had gotten hot from all the walking in the summer sunshine. I pushed down the straps at the backs of my heels and loosened my sandals.

  Zinnia pushed half the mail over to me, and we began our investigation.

  Tansy’s bills were up to date, but there were several other letters that painted a clear picture. A property development firm wanted to purchase Tansy’s land, and they weren’t taking no for an answer. They’d started months earlier by making offers at assessed value. More recently, they’d doubled the offer. The most recent letter had a more sinister tone and alluded to calling in authorities to investigate everything from zoning infractions to unauthorized growth of controlled substances on the
property.

  When we were done, my aunt stacked the papers into a neat pile. She looked me in the eyes and tented her fingers thoughtfully. The air inside the house was stagnant. Sitting down with loosened sandals hadn’t cooled me down at all. My mouth was gummy, my face felt sticky, and my antiperspirant had given up on its life’s purpose.

  My body had recovered from the tumble outside, but I felt light-headed, and there was a tickling at the back of my neck, as though I was being watched. The tickling on my neck turned into something else, something like a Popsicle being pressed against the back of my hot neck.

  The chill became more pronounced. Something was at my back.

  “Zinnia,” I whispered, careful not to make any sudden movements. “I believe there’s a ghost behind me.”

  “Probably you-know-who,” she said, careful to omit Tansy’s name.

  “What should I do? Should I invite her inside my head or try to communicate with her the way I did with the dogs?”

  Zinnia slowly reached for her purse. She pulled out two cotton balls plus an unmarked plastic bottle. “No, no, not that one,” she muttered to herself. She exchanged the bottle for a tube, not unlike a toothpaste tube but with no label. She deftly squeezed lavender-hued goop onto the cotton balls.

  “Put these up your nostrils,” she said.

  I took the lavender-soaked cotton and did as I was told. She didn’t fully trust me, but I trusted her.

  The cotton balls had smelled pleasant enough, but once I got them fitted into my nostrils, it was a different story. Had the cotton turned into a furry creature that was experiencing violent stomach flu inside my nostrils?

  I gagged noisily.

  “Try not to inhale through your nostrils,” she said.

  I opened my mouth to breathe more easily, but that seemed to oxidize the scent and make it even worse.

  “What is this?” I couldn’t stop gagging. “Concentrated eau de halitosis?”

  “More or less,” she said.

  “From what creature?”

  “You don’t want to know.” She motioned for me to turn around. “Is it her? Do you see Tansy?”

  I turned around to find a woman standing behind me. I had already known, on some level, that she was there, but I was still shocked. I startled in my chair and made a non-verbal sound like HRBBBBRRR. That’s the sort of thing you say when you see a ghost lady behind you, even if she looks pleasant enough.

  Zinnia asked, “What do you see? Tell me everything, but you must keep your mouth as closed as possible while you talk.”

  “Why?”

  She sent a wave of light and energy at my chin. The energy locked onto my jaw and held it up, effectively wiring my mouth shut.

  “You can talk,” she said. “But don’t let your mouth open any larger than a nostril, or she’ll slip in.”

  Through a narrow crack in my lips, I said, “I’m not a ventriloquist.” And then, “Hey, not bad,” because my enunciation hadn’t been bad at all.

  Tansy’s spirit stood motionless, her eyes unfocused. She had the what-did-I-come-to-this-room-for look on her face.

  Careful to keep my lips close together, I asked my aunt, “What about my ears?”

  “Spirits travel on breath,” she said.

  I nodded. That answered my next question about areas that might need protecting.

  Doing my ventriloquist impression, I described the ghost before me. Tansy was about eighty percent opaque, like the dogs, but she had light skin and wore light clothes, so her transparency was more obvious. I’d seen photographs of Tansy upstairs, so I had no doubt the ghost was her.

  Tansy’s face was deeply lined, and her hair was as gray as mine was red. Her clothes were shades of green, but the details were hard to distinguish. When I tried to focus on her clothing, her blouse shifted to a T-shirt and then a blouse of a different style. A clear view of her attire was always out of reach, like the end of a rainbow as you approach. Her face, however, stayed crisp and clear. Tansy was Caucasian, with a weather-beaten oval face, light-blue watery eyes, thin gray eyebrows, and an equally thin yet crooked nose. Her gray hair hung down past her waist, as though it hadn’t ever been cut. She wore two pairs of glasses—one on the high bridge of her nose and another on top of her head.

  When I was done describing her, my aunt spoke with a sad sniff. “That’s Tansy, all right. People in Wisteria mistook her for a homeless person at times. She was a walking contradiction, as brilliant and sharp as she was absentminded. One time, I saw her put a pair of glasses on over top of the pair she was already wearing.” Another sniff. “What’s she doing now? Is she trying to communicate with us?”

  “She’s looking at the stack of mail on the table. Now she’s moving.” I turned on my chair to watch as the ghost of Tansy walked around the table to the mail. She put her translucent hand through the letters and paused, frowning. Then she glanced around.

  I described this to Zinnia, who replied, “She can’t see us. We must be on different planes. They slip around, which is why the dogs could see us. Time moves differently between the realm of the living and the in-between.”

  “Are you saying there’s a plane of existence with a dozen chicken ghosts wandering around?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Tansy continued swiping at the mail, apparently unaware of us.

  I reached for the putrid cotton balls that were still jammed in my nostrils. “If she can’t see us, I’m pulling out these plugs before my brain turns into Blue Stilton cheese.”

  “Don’t,” she barked.

  I dropped my hands reluctantly.

  She explained, “Just so you know, that barrier compound is not bacterial in nature. I’d be very surprised if you could make cheese with it.” She paused. “However, it could come in handy for certain kinds of sauerkraut.”

  “Here we go,” I said. “Tansy’s on the move again.” I described how she was puttering around her kitchen as though preparing a meal. None of the objects she reached for moved, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  We observed her for several minutes. My eyes began watering from the scent of the gooey cotton balls in my nostrils. I wiped away the tears as they came down my cheeks.

  Was I crying? I’d thought my eyes were watering from the tincture, but there was also a heaviness in my chest. The ghost before me had recently been a living, breathing person, with gardens to water and dogs to feed. She’d lived a long life, but she’d been taken too soon. She wouldn’t have lingered around as a ghost if she’d gone peacefully.

  I’d never met the woman, and watching her toss back her long gray hair while she puttered around her kitchen felt like a violation of her privacy. I felt guilty, as though I’d stolen something from her. Survivor’s guilt. I was still alive, and she was not.

  Tansy’s translucent hand passed over the microwave’s control panel. Suddenly, the appliance came to life. The buzzing fan and gleaming yellow light filled the kitchen. The ghost had apparently turned it on. I turned to my aunt, whose cheeks were paler than usual. She was delicately blowing her nose.

  “She turned on the microwave,” I said through tight lips. Zinnia’s jaw-wiring spell had faded, so I had to remember to keep my chin up on my own.

  “Spirits can manipulate electricity,” Zinnia said. “As for the how and the why, I’m afraid you’ll have to find a physicist who believes in magic to explain it to you.”

  “Do you think she’s trying to communicate with us?”

  “Through the microwave? We ought to consider the possibility.” She squinted at the microwave’s control panel without getting up from her chair. “Forty-five seconds. Now forty-four. Forty-three.”

  We waited in silence for the next forty-two seconds, until the microwave finished with a beep.

  The noise seemed to startle Tansy. She whipped her head around, gray hair swinging, then left her kitchen on soundless feet and peered out of the picture window by the recliner nervously. She was fading. Down to fifty percent opacity and then fo
rty percent. I reported this to my aunt, noting that my lips were getting tired from staying in ventriloquist mode.

  She faded to ten percent, looked up to the vaulted ceiling, and disappeared entirely.

  “Now she’s gone,” I said. I rubbed my jaw and yawned. My whole body was stiff, as though I’d been on a road trip for the past five hours. We couldn’t have been sitting at Tansy’s table for more than thirty minutes, but I’d been tense ever since she’d appeared. Time can move strangely on our own plane of existence as well.

  Zinnia asked, “Are the dogs gone as well?”

  “I don’t see them.” The two oversized dog beds were forlorn in their emptiness. A half-eaten piece of rawhide punctuated the nearer of the two. The rawhide would never be finished. Not unless whatever ate the dogs came back for a midnight snack.

  Zinnia spread Tansy’s mail back out in an approximation of how we’d found them.

  Together, we left the house.

  She was quiet on the walk back to the car. We’d left her vehicle at the gates, which were a quarter mile from the house. I had a million questions about Tansy, but I held back out of respect for my aunt’s grief.

  We passed the threshold of the open gates. There’d been no sign of ghosts, neither human nor dog, so she told me I could remove the cotton plugs from my nostrils.

  I moaned with relief.

  “You can toss the cotton balls in the bushes over there,” she said. “No point in keeping them. The effectiveness wears off as the compound oxidizes.”

  I expected to find relief upon removal of the stinky plugs, but it was the opposite. Fresh air inside my nostrils activated the residual scent. I leaned over and spat on the ground, waiting for the nausea to pass.

  After my aunt closed the gates, we got back into her car. The passenger door creaked noisily when I slid in. It felt like years had passed since I’d last been in that contoured seat.

  Something moved at the corner of my vision. We weren’t alone in the car. Someone was in the backseat.

  I opened my mouth to tell my aunt the ghost was in the car, but I didn’t get far.